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1910 
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ivcry Man Has His Price 

A Play : : by Luke North 





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COPYRIGHT PEPOSfT 



Every Man Has His Price 

A Play In Four Acts 

, By Luke North ^ j>4j£x^ 



u 



■:t:-^.j?J.U-. M?- 



The Gorden Press : Los Angeles 
M C M X 



Copyright 1910 

by James H. Qrlffes 

as a Dramatic Composition. 

Publication rights 

Also covered by 

Separate copyright 

of same date. 

All Right* Reserved. 






One Hundred Copies Privately Printed 
(not published) 



220 N. Hancock St., Los Angeies, Calif. 



gCLD 208G4 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 

MENRY ARVIN 
— HIS HEAD ) Visualizations of Henry Arvin's 
— HIS HEART ) mental and emotional natures. 

ALBERT BUTTON GRANE 

MR. BLAND 

MR. JOHNSON 

MISS SARA MANNING 

MISS MARY LAMBSON 

Their Portraits 

Henry Arvin is just turning thirty — of middle 
stature, with studious, thoughtful, intellectual face 
and manner. He is very, neatly, but quietly dressed 
— hardly* an ideal melodramatic hero, yet a hearty, 
free-spoken, gentlemanly "good fellow." 

— His Head (the visualization of Arvin's mental 
nature) is a noticeably older man with a decided 
sprinkling of gray in his hair and deep lines of 
thought about his eyes and forehead ; he is a trifle 
taller and straighter perhaps and carries himself 
with much more conscious dignity, but his voice 
and manner are about the same as Arvin's and his 
attire is identical — save for a few inches on the 
length of his coat for dignity's sake. He is al- 
ways calm and collected and tho sometimes a trifle 
insinuating or even sarcastic in speech, his face 
and bearing remain imperturbable. 

— His Heart (the visualization of Arvin's emo- 
tional nature) appears sometimes older, but more 
often fRarkedly younger than Arvin. His manner, 
face and voice change rapidly in keeping' with the 
situations and the lines, portraying all emotions, 
from the loftiest aspirations to the meanest pas- 
sions. He is dressed the same (except that his coat 
is a few inches shorter) and when in repose he is 
a somewhat younger and a trifle shorter duplicate 
of his principal. 

Albert Dutton Grane is of uncertain age, but 
not younger than fifty. He is unpleasing to the 
eye and the ear, tho it is difficult to say just where- 
in his repulsiveness to civilized standards begins 
or ends. The trickling evidences of the tobacco in 



6 Every Man Has His Price 

liis mouth could be forgiven were his garb honest 
and his manner genuine. He wears a silk hat, gaudy 
trousers, and a Prince Albert that almost fits him. 
His black hair has lost the dye at its roots and 
carries an excessive burden of tonic. There is more 
than enough pomade on his mustaches — and always 
a crumb or a spot on his brand new coat. His 
shoes and his voice squeak, his verbs wobble, and 
his hands tho soft are not quite clean. He is a 
"self-made inan" somewhat botched in the mak- 
ing. He would like to be pompous and grand, but 
doesn't know how. He tries to combine the gruff, 
piratical sincerity of Collis P. Huntington with the 
garb and demeanor of Adolph Sutro and the pom- 
posity of Leland Stanford — lacking, of course, the 
breadth of vision, personal honesty, and absence of 
pettiness which enabled these men to be great. 

In his own way, however, he is a type, and a 
man of some strength. By the rule of the attrac- 
tion of opposites he can be imagined to have a cer- 
tain fascination for a refined and sensitive woman. 
But his contact with such a woman would seem ir- 
reparably to soil her. One could pity his mistress 
or his wife, but scarcely love. 

Mr. Bland is a very tall man and very lean and 
full of joints. His face is smooth, long, and bony. 
His head is bald. His voice is magnificent — deep, 
clear, resonant, and impressive. There is only one 
other man in San Francisco so superbly and so 
fashionably attired. 

Miss Sara Manning is a beautiful, refined, well- 
dressed young woman. Her attire is fashionable and 
expensive, but by no means showy. She is all that 
the heroine of a melo-drama ought to be. 

Miss Mary Lambson, stenographer, is a trim lit- 
tle woman of slight build, very neat in appearance — 
rather comely upon the whole, but by no means 
conspicuously so. She is sprightly and demure, witty 
and thoughtful — not an unlovable woman, but one 
to be valued more for her rare intelligence than 
her person. 



The Alter Egos 
To avoid encumbering the text with stage direc- 
tions, let it be remembered that the Alter Egos of 
Henry Arvin (His Head and His Heart) are seen 



The Time and the Scene 7 

only by himself and the audience, and their exits and 
entrances are timed with this fact always in view. 

Akvin accepts their presence not as concrete actu- 
alities, but rather as shadowy and insubstantial ex- 
istences which he knows to be very real and per- 
manent parts of himself. They are to him as his 
invisible ethereal doubles. Only to the audience are 
they real and substantial entities, and they come 
and go practically unnoticed by all but the audience. 
Arvin's conversation with them is as of a man 
talkmg to himself. 

Suppositiously they are momentary visualizations 
produced by the strength of the human struggle they 
depict — forms created in the ether by power of the 
thought or feeling of the moment. They come from 
nowhere and disappear as mysteriously. 

Actually, as the audience cannot fail to observe, 
they take refuge behind the screens or in the in- 
visible wings of the wall. Without so seeming, they 
are careful at all times not to show themselves too 
conspicuously when anyone other than Arvin is 
present. At the opportune moment they are at his 
elbow, right and left respectively, whispering their 
counsel, suggesting or arguing the point — and their 
exits are equally guarded and opportune. 



THE TIME 
February 22d of the Year 1894 



THE SCENE 
The action of the entire play is in the spacious and 
comfortably-furnished office of Albert Button 
Gr.\ne on the fourth floor of the old Flood Build- 
ing in San Francisco. The single entrance to the 
room is a door rear center whose upper half is 
of ground glass on which is painted (in reverse 
to the audience) the name of the proprietor, be- 
neath which is "Don't Knock" and "Walk In." 
Above the varnished oak wainscoting the walls are 
calcimined a very pale blue. From the ceiling, about 



8 Every Man Has His Price 

center, hangs an elaborately ornamental brass 
chandelier, the gas jets of which represent candles. 

There is a marble washstand in the right rear 
corner, partly hidden by a screen to the right, and 
next to the washstand on the right wall is a clothes 
closet. Further down the right wall is a large white 
marble mantel and open fire-place. Over the mantel 
is a big French bevel mirror set in the wall. Slabs of 
soft coal are burning in the grate, and a polished 
brass scuttle of the same stands to the lower side. 
Before the fire-place is a huge leather-covered chair, 
and a stool in front of it. 

Bisecting the room in the center and almost mak- 
ing two apartments of it is a long heavy oak table, 
to the upper end of which is a Japanese screen. Four 
chairs are at the table, two on each side. On the 
upper end of the table is a typewriter, and beside 
it a large calendar ; in the center is an immense 
vase of golden poppies, the first of the season, and 
on the lower end is the telephone. 

To the left lower is Henry Arvin's desk with a 
swivel chair in front and a Japanese screen to the 
upper end of it. Beyond this is another desk and 
screen and chair, and diagonally across the left up- 
per corner is a leather-covered lounge. Along the 
rear wall are filing cases and to the right is a com- 
bination safe of respectable dimensions. 

There is a generous bunch of violets on top of 
Arvin's desk, blue and red lupins and some nug- 
gets and mineral specimens on the mantel. For its 
day it was a luxurious broker's and promoter's of- 
fice — a type of the kind in which often met and 
plotted the Floods, Crockers and Mackeys of the 
latter days of California's declining romance. 



THE FIRST ACT 

As the curtain rises Mary Lambson enters. She 
doffs her hat and wraps, placing them in the closet, 
primps a hit at the mirror over the iire-place, pokes 
the fire, and does a variety of useless and inane 
things until the last auditor is seated, the last hat 
removed, and there is quiet in the house. Then she 
seats herself at the typewriter and the click of the 
keys is the cue for the action of the play to begin. 

Henry Arvin (enters brusquely — cheerily, but ab- 
stractedly). 'Morning, Miss Lambson. (Goes straight 
to liis desk and opens if, laying his hat and coat on 
chair of first desk as he passes.) 

Mary. Good morning, Mister Arvin. You are late. 

Arvin. Is that so unusual? 

Mary. Your tardiness is resolving itself into 
punctuality. 

Arvin (busy at desk). As sins resolve themselves 
into virtues — 

Mary. Do they? 

Arvin. Surely. Hadn't you noticed — in your read- 
ing? 

Mary. And virtues into sins? 

Arvin. We are using the terms interchangeably 
now. 

Mary. Why use them at all, since they have lost 
their meaning? 

Arvin. The old forms just hang on. We need a 
new vocabulary of morality. 

Mary. Or a new morality ? 

Arvin. Or none ■ 

Mary. We have that already. 

Arvin. And our conduct remains about the same. 

Mary. Abnormal — yes. 

Arvin (still busy at desk). Conduct and morality 
never were very closely associated. 

Mary. Your remarks are in the masculine gender? 

Arvin. O, yes — women are outside the moral ques- 
tion. (Turning.) Mary, you are the cleverest wom- 
an — why have I not fallen desperately in love with 
you ? 

Mary. You forget that ' woman is the selective 
creature — or don't you read Shaw? And I have not 
chosen to select you. (Her face shows the untruth 



10 Every Man Has His Price 

of this assertion, hut her voice is light and firm, 
and he does not see her face. Perhaps he would not 
have noticed if he had, for he is intensely absorbed 
in his own affairs and in himself.) 

Arvin {pensively, going a step toivard her). You 
are a philosopher, Mary. Tell me, have you ever 
stood outside of your own nature, apart from your- 
self, and watched the internal struggle — looked on 
at yourself — approvingly or otherwise? 

Mary. That is peculiarly a masculine trick. 

Arvin. Doesn't a woman ever become a spectator 
of herself — stand aloof and view her thoughts and 
feelings apart from herself? 

Mary. No. Women are neither egotistical nor 
analytical enough for that. Women don't cut them- 
selves up into pieces. A woman is her whole self, 
no matter what her mood. 

Arvin. But yoii analyze, Mary. You have a won- 
derful head. 

Mary. And that is why you — (she does not finish 
the sentence, but if she did it tvould read, "do not 
love me.") What I do is not to the point. Things 
are as they are. Women do not analj^ze. If they did 
men would cease to be analysts — or — 

Arvin. Or the attraction of opposites would cease. 
I suppose you are right. If men and women were 
mentally the same there would be nothing but the 
bodily attraction between them. 

Mary. There might still be the spiritual differ- 
ence. There is something beyond the mind — 

Arvin. The Will — the controlling element — 

Mary. And a woman's passive will that bows to 
things — and a man's active will that rebels and 
tries to shape things — 

Arvin. Would make the most powerful attraction 
imaginable. And I suppose it does enter more or 
less into all the sex relations. 

Mary. Decidedly less, I should say. We live on 
the outside of life entirely — particularly you men 
that analyze. Analysis is only a mental process. 
Women are often profound — more introspective upon 
the whole than man. 

Arvin. But they haven't reached the mental plane 
of self-analysis — or they have reached bej'ond it. 
Which is it? 

IvIary. Mostly the former — but not always. 

Arvin. You do not flatter your sex. 

Mary. I respect it too highly. That is for men 
to do — when they are not analyzing — themselves. 

Arvin {more seriously). It isn't such a pleasant 
thing. 



The First Act 11 

Mary. I would like to peep in some time and see 
you at it. Are you taken often? 

Arvin (shuddering, earnestly). It becomes a vice. 
How the elements in one can war — how they torture 
and rend! Be thankful that you are a woman, Mary, 
if that saves you from the struggle of self — from 
the struggle of conflicting and warring desires. 

Mary. It is the human elements warring in you. 
They never can agree among themselves. That more 
than human which you are, must calm and lead 
them. 

Arvin. The Will? 

Mary. Yes, the Will — perhaps. 

Arvin. But they becloud it, smother it — or creep 
in unawares when the Will is passive. They seize 
the Will and try to force it to their purposes — to 
their conflicting purposes. One cannot always be 
positive and watchful. 

Mary. Not if one has moods — which one has no 
business to have — 

Arvin. Then life would be colorless. 

Mary. The true life of strength is beyond color. 

Arvin. And beyond usefulness in this our world of 
form and color. 

Mary. Yes — and therefore external life is always 
a struggle. 

Arvin. And yet its greatest struggles are not ex- 
ternal. (Mary smiles and nods assent.) O, I could 
tell of struggles that rob days. of peace and nights 
of rest ! When reason wars with feeling — it isn't 
a question of morality — but why do I talk like this 
to you, Mary? 

Mary. Because we are friends (gives him her 
hand) — and — (zvith an effort that he does not see) — 
and not lovers. Because we understand each other. 
(Lightly) Go on — men are interesting creatures. 

Arvin. Often at my right stands reason. 

(His Head enters softly and slowly approaches.) 
He is always cold, unfeeling, unmoral. He would 
reduce all life to axioms and syllogisms — would 
weigh and measure every impulse, from the lowest 
passion to the loftiest aspiration. If his counsel saves 
from vice or folly, it often shuts the door on reality, 
and leads to nothing more than dull conformity. 
He assumes to guide life and yet cannot answer its 
simplest problems. He cannot tell me Why or Who 
I am, or what the Game of Life is all about. He 
leads from much that is true and uplifting, and from 
all that is bright and alluring. 

And then the brighter and darker side of me 
comes — the colors, tints, shadings of life — how they 
blend ! 



12 Every Man Has His Price 

(His Heart enters silently and slowly approaches) 
This emotional, passional, aspirational part, camclcon 
like, stands out bold and clear as another image 
of myself sometimes. And then I am urged un- 
reasoningly, to the heights — or to the depths. I can 
see them there at either side of me often. They 
are like living, breathing actualities — thought forms 
and emotional images of myself. 

The Alter Egos withdraiv. As Mary instinctively 
follows Arvin's gaze she catches a glimpse of them 
as they disappear, and shudders, almost ready to be- 
lieve she has seen mental images. 

Mary. And when they battle — 

Arvin. Then hell becomes reality. 

Mary. Then you suffer, Henry. Then you, the real 
Henry Arvin, are ground fine and polished and 
made strong. . . . (Eagerly) But you conquer 
and use them? That is the true glory of life! You 
conquer them, and rule them — tell me that you do ! 

Arvin (lias regained his composure and is rather 
abashed at his impulsiveness). Now you are serious, 
Mary, which breaks our first rule that both of us 
never shall be serious at the same time. 

Mary. Ah, yes. I forgot. 

Arvin (lightly). Your memory is entirely fem- 
inine, Miss Lambson. I was reading about your sect 
the other evening. 

Mary (drily). Yes— in the Book of Life? She sent 
those violets. 

Arvin. Did she? (Mary puts a bunch of them in 
his button hole.) Thank you. 

Mary. She's worth all your blushes — and more — 
But you were reading — ? 

Arvin. Yes — in the book of death, I should say 
— that one of the young German savant who com- 
mitted suicide as soon as he had written it. 

Mary. Sorbinger, you mean. 

Arvin. That is the name. You know everything, 
Mary. 

Mary. I wish I didn't know so much. . • •. • 
But — he wrote well — about men. You found it in- 
teresting? 

Arvin (busy at his desk). No, about women. Yes, 
intensely interesting — and instructive. 

Mary (busy at typewriter). No doubt. 

Arvin. Moi-ality, says Sorbinger, is a matter of 
memory — of continuity of thought — you see? 

Mary. Perhaps — but — 

Arvin. And women having no real memory of 
sequence, have therefore no morality. 

Mary. And then he awoke and killed himself. 



The First Act 13 

Ar\in. But it is true — and here is the case in point 
(turning toward her). You have forgotten to turn 
your calendar — you are Hving in yesterday. It is 
the 22d — Washington's birthday — and we don't work 
on holidays in this office. You ought to be home 
with your mother, or out with her somewhere. 
The hills are full of wild flowers. It is a case of 
filial neglect — a breach of the fifth commandment. 
You are a creature without memory — sans morality 
— in other words, a woman. Am I right? 

Mary {she has turned the cah^ndar — mockingly). 
The poor working girl pleads guilty, your honor — 
with a recommendation for mercy. (Rising) But you 
are working? 

Arvin. just to sort over a few papers. I looked 
in chiefly to guard your memory and your morals, 
Miss Lambson (busy at desk again). 

Mary. Your thoughtfulness — and memory — are 
only partially equalled by your morality — and con- 
ceit, Mr. Arvin. 

Arvin. Not another word, Mary Lambson. Go 
home and tell your mother how unmoral you are. 

Mary (putting on her hat). Not even immoral? 

Arvin. No — just unmoral. 

Mary (at the door). Well, if your Alter Egos get 
after you and begin to grind, just ring me up on 
the 'phone, and I'll come and separate you. 

Arvin. I'm much more likely to call a policeman, 
Mary. Really, that's what I should have done, in- 
stead of bothering your poor kind head with my 
troubles. It wasn't the thing to do — 

Mary. Don't say that, please. It takes away all 
the (turning aside) sweetness of it. 

Arvin. Men are self-centered — that is why they 
are brutal to women. And their wits are not nim- 
ble enough. I think women are better creatures than 
men, Mary. 

Mary (sighs, but speaks lightly). Both better and 
worse, Henry. Give her my love. 

Arvin. I will. 

Mary. Adios. Goes. 

Arvin. Good-bye. See you in the morning. (Turns 
to Iiis ivork and becomes absorbed in it.) 

Heart enters, reaches for the violets and holds 
them invitingly for Arvin to catch their fragrance. 

Arvin. (takes the Aozvers unconsciously and re- 
places them). In Life's Garden I have found the 
fairest flower. She is the answer to the prayer of 
my years. I am content. 

Head (appearing). It is not well for man to be 
content. He must echo Faust — 



14 Every Alan Has His Price 

And when thou hearest me say to the swiftly- 
fleeting moment, 
"Stay yet awhile, thou art lovely!" then mayst 
I die— 
And whether one echo it or not, such is the Way of 
Things, and of Growth. 

Arvin. Be it so — we will grow and serve together. 
(//<? sits musing, in silence.) 

Head. But you have loved before. 

Arvin. Not like this. 

Heart. Not so worthily — not a soul loftier than 
your own. She is life's ideal. 

Arvin smiles approval. 

Head. I wonder why she left you so suddenly last 
night when Granc appeared. 

Arvin. Why should I question, or care? 

Heart (bends lozv and zvhispers). She loves you. 
That is enough. She is noble and true. 

Head. She had a secret to tell you — you should 
have listened. 

Arvin (dreamily). Time enough for that. 

Heart (to Head). All he cared for was to hear 
her softly confess — "I love you !'" 

Head (to Heart). But he knows so little about 
her. Old Grane is her uncle — 

Heart. Yes. Her terrible misfortune. 

Head. He will not approve. 

Heart. That will be his misfortune. It will make 
no difference. 

Arvin. Love will conquer. 

Head. That sounds well — and popular. 

Heart. And it's true. 

Head. Is anything true? 

Arvin. Love is true. 

Heart. Love is true— if you pay its full price. 

Head. Love is the most expensive thing in the 
world. For true love you will have to pay about 
everything else in life that is worth while. 

Heart. It is cheap, even at that. 

Arvin. Nothing else in life is worth while. I 
have paid — and will pay more, gladly — let the price 
be what it will. (There is a pause.) 

Head (cautiously). You have known her only a 
month. 

Heart (szuiftly). An instant is eternity to love! 

Arvin. Eternity ! I have seen it in the depths of 
her eyes — depths that reveal the memory of past ex- 
istences ! In her smile is the promise of futurity — in 
her voice the music of life. To me she is the cosmic 
woman. 

Head. But is it safe for one to grasp and hold 



The First Act 15 

in his arms the ideal — to say "There is no more"? 

Heart. Why question Hfe? One is a fool to take 
less than it offers. 

Head. There is a higher love than that of man for 
woman. 

Arvin. Hand-in-hand we shall find it. (Turning 
to his zi'ork) But this won't do. 

Heart {whispers). You will see her this after- 
noon. 

_ Arvin. I promised Grane I would put these for- 
eign papers in the safe. Why is he so anxious about 
them ? 

Heart (suggcsti)igly). Something crooked here. 

Arvin. Yes, there is some deviltry in this Relton 
estate case out of which Grane expects to become 
a millionaire. 

Head (cautioning) . That is not your affair. Grane's 
motives are his own. All court cases are crooked. 

Arvin. O, that is too sweeping — not all. 

Head. Where there is honesty and fairness there 
is no need for the courts. 

Arvin. That is an unglittering generality. 

Head. Your salary is substantial. 

Arvin. Yes — the salary suits my complexion rather 
well. (A letter falls open) What is this? Sara — O, 
Sara Relton. Thank God, it is not Sara Manning. 
I would hate to have her name mixed — (involun- 
tarily he glances over the letter) So! to Sara Rel- 
ton belong these millions that Albert Button Grane 
expects, to harvest. And she alive — he knows her 
whereabouts — (reading) represented as deceased. 
God ! what a piece of villainy ! 

Head. Don't get excited. It is not your concern. 
The probate records are replete with such melo- 
dramas. You have no business prying into these per- 
sonal letters. 

Akvin. True enough. And in this case the effect 
follows the cause quickly. I can't take any more of 
Grane's money. I must leave here at once. 

Head. Don't be rash. Think it over — reason it out. 

Arvin. Not a moment will I think of it. With her 
image in my heart, my hands must be clean. 

Head. Ah, very Quixotic. She ought to hear you. 

Arvin. Quixotic it may be. I shall leave at once. 
(Turns to finish his work.) I know too much. . . 

. . But that name — Sara — 

Head. Merely a coincidence. 

Arvin (busy). I suppose so. 

Heart. She loves you. 

Arvin (smiling, pausing a moment, then contin- 
uing his zvork). I have her love — that is enough. 



16 Every Man Has His Price 

We will leave here — go off somewhere — anywhere — 

Head. Just so. Buy an estate in the country — an 
orange grove at Riverside — a castle on Lake Como. 
A month's salary is enough for almost anything. 

Arvin (resolutely). O, I'll work, and win for her! 
I could not go to her with soiled hands. 

Head. Think it over. Reason it out. 

Arvin. Keep still — that is settled. 

Heart (luhisl^cring). She loves you. Be worthy. 

Arvin (leans back a monicnt musingly). All else 
is unimportant. That love, I'll keep it white and un- 
stained as it came to us — as it is. She — 

(The door opens and Albert Button Grane en- 
ters.) You are earlier than I expected, Mr. Grane. 
I have not finished — 

Grane. Never mind that now. 'I want to talk to 
you about another thing. This nonsense has gone far 
enough — 

Arvin (rises, then checks himself and speaks mild- 
ly). But I am not your lackey, 1^1 r. Grane. 

Grane (oblivious) . I want to tell you about that 
young woman I seen you with last night. 

Arvin (hotly, yet repressed). We will not discuss 
that, Mr. Grane. 

Grane. O, yes, we will. She is — 

Arvin (threatening). Not another word! 

Grane. I'm her guardt-fji. 

Arvin. She is of age. 

Grane. Well, you ain't going to marry her. You 
can make sure of that. 

Arvin. That is not for you to decide. 

Grane. I'm going to decide it, tho. I know this 
young woman pretty tolerably well. 

Arvin. Unfortunately. 

Grane. She ain't what you think she is. Her name 
ain't — 

Arvin (too hastily). Is it Relton? 

Grane (guardedly). I mean she ain't the kind of 
woman a man marries. I guess you know — (insin- 
uatingly) 

Arvin (repressing himself by great effort', takes 
hat and coat and makes for the door). This is your 
office, Mr. Grane, but there are certain things you 
can't say to me here, or anywhere. I am going. 

Grane (plants himself in front of the door). Not 
till you hear what I got to say. (Then hurriedly) I 
know ail about her — I'm the father of her child. 

Arvin (stunned). What! It's a lie! 

Grane (cooly). Wait a minute. She's been my 
mistress since she was eighteen. Of course, that's 
on the quiet. When you're moving in Nob Hill so- 



The First Act 17 

ciety you don't let on about them things, you know. 
And my wife — she'd kick up a hell of a rumpus. 
O, Sara's a nice girl, but even if I was free — it 
ain't just the thing in our set to marry your mis- 
tress, you — 

Heart (has appeared behind Arvin, livid zvith 
rage, his hands clinched his eyes Haring) . Kill him! 

Before Grane has finished Arvin advances upon 
him threateningly and ivitli such determination in 
his face and manner that Grane takes fright and 
makes a hurried exit. Arvin follows him closely, His 
Heart behind him calling in terrible rage: 

He.-\rt. Kill him! Kill him! 

As Grane disappears thru the door Arvin hur- 
riedly locks it, as tho to keep himself from folloivmg 
Grane. As Arvin turns from the door His Heart 
reaches it and in great rage thrusts himself upon it 
and for a moment storms to get at Grane. Balked 
of Ills prey, he finally subsides and disappears. 

Arvin (walks unsteadily to his desk and buries 
his face in his hands. Presently the telephone rings 
— he does not hear it. There is a knock on the door, 
zvhich he does not heed. The incessant ringing of 
the telephone, however, finally rouses him. He goes 
over to the table and anszuers it). This is Mr. Arvin 
— Holdt & Reech ? — can't you postpone till tomor- 
row? I am leaving here. Me — personally — well, I 
suppose sOj if you come at once. I am going very 
soon. Good-bye. (Returning to his desk he tics up 
papers, takes a bunch of them over to safe, opens 
it by combination, deposits papers, and locks safe. 
On his zoay back there is a knock on the door. He 
opens it abstractedly and Sara Manning enters. He 
is surprised, cliecks his impulsive step tozvard her — 
greets her silently, bozving — then impulsively) : It is 
not true, Sara — what Grane said — it is not true? 
(Scans her eagerly) Say it is not true. Say it is all 
a black and hideous lie ! My love ! My world ! Say 
it is a lie ! I — God ! you do not speak ! 

Sara. I wanted to tell you last night. You would 
not listen. You had my heart, my love — that was 
enough, you said. Nothing could matter if we loved 
each other. There could be no past for love. Is — 
it — so — different — now ? 

Arvin. The whole world is different now. 

Sara. I am not changed. 

Arvin. Life itself is changed. 

Sara. Love was all sufficient, you said. I leaned 
on your love — on my own — on our love. And now — ■ 
is not love enough? 

Arvin. My love is dead. I did not know. 



18 Every Man Has His Price 

Sara. O ! (falls into chair at tabic and buries her 
face in her hands.) 

The door opens and a stranger stands on the 
threshold as the Curtain descends. 

END OF ACT ONE 



THE SECOND ACT 

As the curtain rises Sara Manning passes out and 
Mr. Bland enters. Self-absorbed, she scarcely no- 
tices him, and out of deference for her evident grief 
he refrains from scrutinizing her. When she is gone 
Arvin closes the door and listlessly motions his vis- 
itor to a seat. Bland sits at table near the typewriter. 
Arvin is in his swivel chair at his desk. 

Bland. I am the confidential agent of the law 
firm of Holdt & Reech, sir, the attorneys who rep- 
resent the English claimants to the estate of Her- 
bert Rclton deceased. You may recall that I had 
the pleasure of meeting you in court the day the 
argument was made on the demurrer to the amended 
complaint. Pardon me, but you are quite pale, sir. 
I trust you are not unwell, tho it would hardly 
be strange if you were indisposed. Almost every- 
body has an attack of something or other just now, 
it seems. These winds and the evening fogs— so 
early this year. In your case, however, I trust it is 
only a slight cold and that we shall see you entirely 
recovered in a few days, sir. 

Arvin (who has scarcely heard). Thanks — but as 
to any business — ? 

Bland. Certainly, sir, certainly. I may begin by 
saying that it concerns you very personally. 

Arvin. I think you are mistaken. It cannot in- 
terest me if it refers to Mr. Crane's affairs. I am 



The Second Act 19 

about to leave here. If you could call tomorrow and 
see him — 

Blano. That is impossible, Mr. Arvin. I will be per- 
fectly frank with you and come to the point at once. 

Akvin. Do, please. 

Bland. You have certain papers in your posses- 
sion — depositions and letters from England, just re- 
ceived. These would be of great service to the Eng- 
lish claimants. I am here to negotiate with you, Mr. 
Arvin, for the — ah — that is, for the transfer of 
those papers. 

Arvin (his troubled brain has not caught up with 
the drift of things). But they are the property of 
Mr. Grane. He will be here tomorrow. I am not 
an interested party in this matter. It would — (but 
nozv the light dazvns and he straightens up and lakes 
notice). 

Bland. Quite true, Mr. Arvin, as you say, I was 
leading to that. I have not come unprepared to make 
certain monetary concessions to you that will, I 
trust, be a sufficient inducement — or shall I say, that 
will sufficiently reimburse you — for — for — 

Arvin. For turning thief. I understand you. Go on. 

Bland. Why, not that,- my good sir, not that. 
You take the matter too seriously by far. Such 
transactions are very common in probate matters 
these days. I could cite many precedents — but you 
are probably familiar with them yourself. Mr. Grane 
has no moral right to these documents. 

Arvin. As to that, I am in no way informed or 
concerned — 

Head (appears). Don't be rash. Hear him. 

Bland (ingratiatingly). To be sure, to be sure. 
Yet as you are about to become disassociated with 
the case. . . . The ends of justice would be 
furthered. . . . Now, if — ah — say a thousand 
dollars would be of service to you? 

Arvin is silent — his face is partly turned from 
Bland. 

Heart approaches, a leer on his lips and a lustful 
gleam in his eyes. 

Bland (softly). Would five thousand dollars be 
an inducement — (aside) There's a bad set to the 
lower jaw. 

Arvin is silent — he is hearing another voice. 

Heart. Love is an empty word, but lust is real. 
Take her as she is — here is the means — and feast 
your senses. 

Head. There is a steamer leaving for Australia 
in the morning. 

Bland. The attorneys on our side have but scant 



20 Every Man Has His Price 

funds at their disposal, Mr. Arvin, but I presume 
they would not stop at ten thousand. 

Head. That is a competency in some countries. 

Heart. Here is fate at your door. Forget the 
ideal in the languors of her arms. Those match- 
less curves of her soft flesh ! How she lures ! 

Bland (anxiously and simply). Fifteen thousand. 

Heart. Here is ease and comfort, and a beautiful 
woman. Snatch the joys before you. 

Head. You could read, study, travel — the intel- 
lectual life and freedom from poverty. 

Arvin is still silent. 

Bland (desperately and finally). Say twenty thou- 
sand, then? 

Head. That would buy a villa in Southern Italy, 
or make you rich in Japan. 

Heart. You won't be satisfied till you have had 
her. Take her — and leave her when you tire of her. 
Why scruple? Take him up, quick! 

Arvin (turning in liis chair). Go on, Mr. — 

Bland. Bland, sir. Really I can go no farther, 
Mr. Arvin, without consulting my firm. However, 
I shall be at my office at any hour, prepared to 
fulfill to the letter the oflfer as it now stands. 

Head. Don't act rashly. Think it over. Reason 
it out. 

Bland. Should you conclude, Mr. — 

Arvin (rising suddenly). There is the door, sir! 
(Goes to door and holds it open.) 

Bland (going, expeditiously). Very well, sir, I 
bid you good day. 

Arvin (closes door and returns to his desk). A 
few moments more now and I am thru with this 
stage of my life. Shall I do him the decency to 
leave a note? I had better — it may save questions 
and close the matter definitely. (Writes, puts note in 
envelope and leaves it on the table near typewriter. 
Then he gets his coat and hat. He hears someone 
fumbling at the lock. Opens the door, revealing Mary 
taking her key out.) 

IMary. No wonder my key wouldn't work. It 
seems that you are doing all the work in this build- 
ing today. 

Arvin. The door wasn't locked. 

Mary. It should have been. Not another office 
open. The elevator is dead. I had to walk up. 

Arvin. But why did you return? Can't you take 
a hoHday and get some fresh air? 

Mary. Mother has one of her sick spells. She's 
the most delightful invalid — simply insists on being 
left alone. So I came down to write some letters — 



The Second Act 21 

in reach of the 'phone. But may I be so bold, Mr. 
Arvin, as to inquire what keeps you here all day? 
Is the nature of your work so alluring that you can't 
tear yourself away from it? 

Arvin. I am leaving it forever. 

Mary (looks at him earnestly; is startled at the 
change). Something has happened. Where is the 
light-hearted lover I left here only a few hours ago? 

Arvin I am going away to find him. 

Mary. And she — is she going with you? But I 
needn't ask that. A tragedy has fallen on your 
house, my friend. Tell me of it — if you can — if I 
can help. 

Arvin. No one can help, Mary. No one can mend 
a broken image. 

Mary. O, if the parts be not missing. There are 
wonderfully clever doctors of broken statuary. 

Arvin. But it's never quite the same. And then, 
if the most important part is missing? Or if the 
shattered image was only an ideal — ? 

Mary. An ideal woman, for instance. 

Arvin. Why deny it to you ? 

Mary. You couldn't. I knew it the moment I 
saw your face. . . . Henry, it is a grave and 
a foolish error for a grown man to idealize a 
woman. 

Arvin. But if she comes to one as an ideal — with 
a golden aureole all about her? 

Mary {musingly). She comes with her best foot 
forward naturally, and unconsciously. The aureole 
is in the magic spectacles — of course — {earnestly) 
But why take off the spectacles? 

Arvin. What if they are snatched from your eyes 
by fate ? 

M.'\ry. Who officiated? Fate is powerless without 
man. 

Arvin. And with fate man is powerless. 

Mary. That makes a good paradox but not a whole 
truth. What is dependent upon man is subordinate 
to him. 

Arvin. I used to think so. 

Mary. It isn't a matter of thought, but of knowing. 

Arvin. Who knows anything? 

Mary. No one who speaks, I grant you. But we 
can talk about things. I can know, for instance, that 
circumstances and events are non-intelligent forces. 

Arvin. Like the multiplication table — and to be 
changed as easily. 

Mary. That's the foolishness of man, that he tries 
to change the multiplication table — instead of him- 
self, the only thing he can change. 



22 Every Man Has His Price 

Arvin. Can he rule what he cannot change? 

Mary. He can rule whatever he can use. He rules 
sand and water, yet never changes them. Wliatever 
lacks intelligence must be inferior to that which 
has intelligence. The greater can rule the lesser. 

Arvin. Ergo, fate having no intelligence, man is 
naturally its master — I suppose you would reason? 

Mary. When he has intelUgence enough to use 
fate, instead of being used by it — then is he its 
master. 

Arvin. So in the end it's a matter of intelligence? 

Mary. Everything in the end is a matter of in- 
telligence. Fate is only the insensate stream that 
joins things. Sail on and with that stream, or turn 
your millstones by it and all its terrible insensate 
power is yours. Try to breast it — 

Arvin. And the caverns of hell echo with ghoul- 
ish laughter. 

Mary. Or other words to the same purport — yes. 

Arvin. It reasons well, Mary. But life is deeper 
than reason. . ; 

Mary. Or it would be shallow indeed. 

Arvin. And when we come to its personal appli- 
cation — 

Mary. O, reason was never meant for home con- 
sumption. With it we are anxious to guide the lives 
of others. But our own lives are ruled from within, 
or from without — as we are Gods or puppets. 

Arvin is silent. There is a pause. 

Mary. But tell me now, who officiated to tear off 
those magical spectacles? 

Arvin. Granc was here. 

Mary. Grane — an ill omen. It argues badly. 

Arvin (desperately, yet quietly). She was his mis- 
tress. 

Mary. Impossible ! I don't believe it. (Shudders) 
O, horrors! how could you believe that? Not that 
(walks the Hoor) I know it isn't true. 

Arvin. I repelled it at first — violently. . . . But 
— it — is — true. He is the father of her child. She — 

The door opens and Bland enters. 

Bland. Pardon me — I thought — 

Arvin. I have nothing to say to you, sir. 

Mary (suddenly). But I have. Won't you be 
seated? (to Arvin) Go for awhile, please, and leave 
me with this person. I must see him now about 
things of great importance to me. His firm was my 
father's counsel. But you won't leave without see- 
ing me? I shall wait here. You won't go away with- 
out saying good-bye — promise that. Come back in 
half an hour or so, won't you? 



The Second Act 23 

Arvin (willing to escape the presence of Bland, 
and his muddled brain anxious to he alone). Yes — 
I think I'll go out awhile. I'll look in again, but 
only to say good-bye. Exit. 

Mary. I am Miss Lambson, the daughter of Lor- 
enzo Lambson — you may recall the name? Your firm 
represented my father in his — diflficulties. 

Bland. I am happy to know you, Miss Lambson. 
I recall the matter perfectly. The most honorable 
insolvency proceedings, I may say, that I have ever 
had the pleasure of witnessing. Your father legally 
might have saved quite a competency. 

Mary. But that is all past now. You are closely 
associated with the firm? 

Bland. Very closely. I handle all their confidential 
matters, if I may so express it. 

Mary {bent on making herself agreeable). So I 
understood. It is a very responsible, and — ah — 
rather delicate post, I believe. 

Bland (impressively) . I handle a great inany mo- 
mentous issues, Miss Lambson. 

Mary. Indeed. And this Relton estate — it is a 
very important case, is it not? 

Bland. The most important one on the probate 
docket in the entire West, I may say, involving 
something over eighteen million dollars. 

Mary. Mr. Grane is the most favored claimant, 
I believe ? 

Bland. He appears to be just at present, I am 
bound to admit. But many changes may occur be- 
fore the final hearing in court is reached. 

Mary. And in your professional capacity you have 
probably probed very deeply into Mr. Crane's life 
and his connections. 

Bland. My work is very thoro, Miss Lambson. 
Every step, almost, of his life is recorded. (Secret- 
ly) My collection of data concerning Mr. Grane 
makes a bulkier volume than the dictionary. 

Mary. There is a young woman in his family? 

Bland. A Miss Sara Manning. 

Mary. Are you acquainted with her? 

Bland. Not personally — but otherwise — her close 
connection — 

Mary. You never have seen her? 

Bland. I think not. Miss Lambson. 

Mary. Is there anything in her life — anything of 
a nature — 

Bland. Yes. in its nature quite shocking, as you 
suggest. Miss Lambson. 

Mary (alarmed — aside). Can it be true? (To 
Bland, smiling). Indeed — I suppose — it would not — 
bear repeating? 



24 Every Man Has His Price 

Bland. Hardly, in public, Miss Lambson. 

Mary. But among ourselves? I am very much 
interested in her — in quite a friendly way. 
• Bland. A most unfortunate affair. You see, it is 
very uncertain whether her marriage some ten years 
ago in Chicago was legal. In fact, it is almost cer- 
tain that it was not. A forged signature to the — 

Mary (witJi a sigJi of relief and unable to repress 
her satisfaction) . Is that all? 

Bland. My dear Miss Lambson, how could there 
be anything worse? Think of the social ostracism — 
a wife without a name ! 

Mary (her irony but illy concealed). Horrible, 
horrible ! But is there not a beautiful compensation 
lurking in it ? 

Bland. Indeed? 

Mary. Yes. She is also a wife, without a hus- 
band. 

Bland. You are jesting, Miss Lambson. It is quite 
serious to the law. 

Mary. Doesn't the law take itself too seriously? 

Bland (pompously). Its dignity must be upheld. 

Mary. Even at the cost of a woman's name. 

Bland. The ends of justice must be conserved. 

Mary. Regardless of human happiness. 

Bland (patronizingly). The law exists, Miss 
Lambson, to vouchsafe and protect human happiness. 

Mary (dryly). So I notice, in this case, where 
under its benign provisions, the invalidity of a sig- 
nature protects — protects — 

Bland. That is really the point of the case, Miss 
Lambson. How clearly you see it. The whole matter 
rests upon the signature. The person officiating is 
said to have represented and to have forged the 
signature of a well-known divine. 

Mary. And a woman's character, then — shall we 
say character, or merely her reputation? 

Bland. In reference to a woman, I am sure you 
will agree with me. Miss Lambson, character and 
reputation can hardly be separated. We may say 
that they are synonymous. 

Mary. I suppose so. And we may say then that 
under the protection of the law a woman's char- 
acter depends upon the validity of another person's 
signature ? 

Bland. Upon the circumstance of whether tiiat 
signature is or is not valid. I would rather phrase 
it that way. Miss Lambson. 

Mary. But either way — doesn't it seem a little 
hard on the woman? 

Bland. We must maintain the integrity of social 



The Second Act 25 

usage, I am sure. Society cannot consider the in- 
dividual. 

Mary. O, yes it can, and it does, whenever there 
is a chance to execrate and ostracize an individual 
woman. Society always has time to frown upon and 
degrade a woman. To smile upon or help a woman — 
ah, then it is that Society cannot stop to consider the 
individual. 

Bland. Possibly our customs are still a little 
mosaic in such matters. 

Mary. Possibly ! 

Bland. But you would not consider, seriously 
now — disregarding them ? 

Mary. Heaven forbid ! But — was the husband's 
name Manning? 

Bland. No, Sanders, I believe. He was a wild 
young fellow — not at all bad at heart till he fell 
under the patronage of Grane. He left her three 
days after the ceremony, and I have not been able 
to trace him. Of course, our side has not been 
greatly interested in the affairs of Miss Manning 
— they are merely collateral. 

Mary. When did Miss Manning resume her own 
name ? 

Bland. That was after the death of her child — 
some eight or nine years ago. 

Mary. I thank you very much, Mr. — 

Bland. Mr. Bland, Miss Lambson. 

Mary. Mr. Bland. The information is of great in- 
terest to me. 

Bland. I am very glad to know that. 

The conversation languishes. Mary turns away, 
seeking an excuse to dismiss him. 

Bland. I had hoped to speak with Mr. Arvin. 

Mary. You will find him here in the morning, I 
suppose. 

Bland. Not again this afternoon? 

Mary. I think he has gone for the day. 

Bland. Then I will be bidding you au revoir, Miss 
Lambson. I trust I shall have the pleasure of see- 
ing you again. 

Mary ( not over warmly). I trust so. I will say 
good-afternoon, Mr. Bland. 

Bland botus elaborately and departs. 

Mary. And that, I am sure, is the mole-hill out 
of which has grown the mountain that weighs so 
heavily on Henry. . . . The possible, probable, 
or even the positive absence of a small gold band 
on a certain finger ! Why not a hole thru the cheek 
or a ring in the nose? The proper intoning of a 
certain formula of words — whether he who in- 



26 Every Man Has His Price 

toned them had or had not a parchment certificate — 
the will or the wliim of even an unknown man — 
of such is compounded the purity of women ! . . 
But how, O how on earth did that grain 
of sand become such a mountain? My poor wits 
are clogged by the rubbish. . . . Well, now for 
a letter. (Goes to typczvritcr and ivorks. The tele- 
phone rings.) O, what? — Mother fainted! Dear — 
yes, yes, at once. (She goes quickly, forgetting every- 
thing else.) 

Arvin enters a moment later; looks around for 
Mary, then sits down at his desk to rest a moment 
zvithout taking off his overcoat and gloves. 

Head (appearing calmly). You ought to think this 
over carefully — reason it out closely. 

Arvin. O, I can't reason now. 

Head. Consider a moment. You have liberal views 
about these things. You have no respect for society's 
hypocritical standard of physical purity. 

Arvin. That is not the question. 

Head. Are you sure it isn't? Suppose now she 
were Crane's widow, or his divorced wife. In either 
case she would have the world's approval as a good 
and pure woman. 

Arvin. But not my love ! A woman who could 
consort with Grane — O, I can't reason about a thing 
like that! I can only feel (taking off his gloves). 

Head. But why give way to your feelings? They 
are primitive. You are actually making a fetich of 
the marriage ring. 

Arvin (hand to his forehead). Keep still — keep 
still ! I can't cope with you now. 

Heart (appearing on the other side, but speaking 
directly to Head). Society's conventions have noth- 
ing to do with this. There is an individual standard 
of purity. That she was Crane's mistress does not 
count. Look at the man ! 

Head. Are you going to judge a man? 

Heart. No. But I am going to choose my in- 
timates. 

Head. Not on a rational basis, I see. 

Heart. On a basis higher and deeper than reason 
reaches. I can't tell you just why Crane's contact 
with a woman soils her, but I can tell j'ou very 
positively that it does. It kills the ideal in her. 

Head. What of that? She is still a woman. 

Heart. But not a woman to love — only one to lust 
after. 

Head. You are drawing fine distinctions. 

Heart. No; it is you that refuse to distinguish 
between two such opposite words. 



The Second Act 27 

Head. Words — yes, mere words. 
Heart. No, conditions — conditions that strengthen 
as intelHgence increases and which reason cannot 
change. 

Head. Love is sex attraction. 

Heart. Love is more than that. Love is the ideal. 
When the ideal is gone, then even the colorless, 
unmoral force of sex-attraction sinks to lust. 

Head. I can't see it. 

Heart. But I can feel it. My ideal is gone. I turn 
to lust — 

Arvin (rousing, vehemently). No more of that. 
I have settled it forever. For the instant you tempted 
me. But the love that was — that is dead — the memory 
of it conquered you. 

Heart (abashed). Well, I presented the only al- 
ternative that is tangible. 

Arvin. My God ! you did. And the world is all 
tangible ! But that would mean to re- 
linquish entirely the ideal — to lose even the mem- 
ory of a love that drew me from the coarseness to 
the core of life while it lasted. I can't let go of 
that ! Let me keep it, tho all future paths lead 
thru the Vale of Tears. (He is silent for a time.) 

Head (approaches softly, leans over on the arm 
of Ar\tn's chair and says to hitn) : Well, perhaps 
you were a little foolish about the money. You 
would have acquired it far more honestly and with 
much less harm to others than most wealth is ac- 
quired. A very modest sum — but enough for you. 
You have to live — eat, dress, a roof. You want a 
few books — 

Arvin. I want nothing so much as my own re- 
spect. 

Head. That sounds well, but it doesn't mean much. 

Arvin. It means everything, when I do not listen 
to you — or to some other voice that is at once a 
part of me and apart from me. 

Head. You might have escaped poverty. 

Heart. He doesn't fear it — because he has no de- 
sire for riches. 

He-^d. Yes; they go together — the fear of poverty 
and the desire for wealth. 

Heart. Fear and desire are always inseparable. 

Head. But how will he live? 

Heart. O, he can graft a little. He has more in- 
telligence than forty per cent of the population, say. 

Head. That is modest — if you consider me. 

Arvin (rousing again for an instant). I have con- 
sidered you entirely too much. I am going to dis- 
regard you now. 



28 Every Man Has His Price 

Head. He is in a heroic mood today. 

Heart. Isn't there anything sacred to you? 

Head. Yes — everything — and nothing — but no one 
thing more than another. 

Heart. You lack the sense of color. 

Head. And you see too many colors. 

Heart. My eyes are open to all the colors of life. 

Arvin. It would be better if sometimes they were 
closed. 

Heart. That may not be, unless we part company 
entirely. 

Arvin. You don't discriminate in the choice of 
colors. 

Heart. That is beyond my province. I reflect and 
present the colors, and then must look to you for 
the choice of them. 

Arvin. You are a weakling. 

Heart. I have only the strength I get from you. 

Arvin relapses into silence again. 

Head. I am his real strength. Now how would 
he make his living without me? And it is time for 
him to think of that, for he will be about broke 
when he leaves here, unless he demands of Grane 
the money due. 

Heart. Which of course he won't. He can live 
without Crane's money. 

Head. Well, I suppose Grane would withhold it 
for breach of contract. (Satirically) There's the 
soup kitchen and the bread line. 

Heart. They are for the unintelligent. He won't 
need them. With your help he can graft a little. 

Head. He doesn't need to graft. There are other 
places he can get. 

Heart. Yes — by crowding in over the heads of 
perhaps a dozen others who need the salary worse 
than he. Isn't that graft — to take what another needs 
more than you ? 

Head. The law doesn't call it graft. 

Heart. If we lived by law we'd be a race of fiends. 
Men are better than their laws. 

Head. Which isn't saying much for men or law. 

Heart. No ; for the whole scheme of modern life 
is graft. 

Head. In which intelligence wins. 

Heart. Of a certain order, j'es. With some of your 
cunning we can ride on the backs of the forty per 
cent beneath him in strength of cunning. 

Head. Push them aside, jostle the crowd, and 
seize the little he wants — I suppose you would say. 

Heart. Yes ; with a certain kind of intelligence 
one can always grab enough out of the common 



The Third Act 29 

fund — lay hold of a loaf of bread now and then 
as the great stream of bread flows from its half- 
starved producers to its over-glutted hoarders. 

Head. But is that a more moral course than to 
take a lump sum like the one just offered and end 
the struggle for bread once and for all? 

Arvin (rousing). Perhaps it isn't; but one is 
self-defense, the other is self-contempt. 

Head. More sounding phrases. But he is weak on 
reason today. 

Arvin (pressing hand to forehead). O, keep still, 
with your reason — reason — reason ! 

Heart. Reason is the; harlot of the ages. She 
fawns upon and excuses everything that is hideous 
and lustful in civilization. She explains the sweat- 
shops and the vile tenements, she assents to the 
prison torture chambers and the gallows shadowing 
the churches, she approves child-labor, she builds 
systems and governments by which the strong tax 
to impoverishment the weak. Reason is bloodless, 
cruel, and bhnd. Those who have no light but rea- 
son end their lives in darkness. 

Head. Would you rule reason out of life, then? 

Arvin (rising to his feet). No, not that. Its ab- 
sence would be worse than its presence. . . . O, 
you have been not such a bad friend to me. I could 
not live in this world without you. But you take 
advantage of my weakness. 

Head. The weakness of the master is always the 
strength of the slave. 

Arvin. And when I blindly follow you it is to 
open my eyes at the end of a cul de sac to bow be- 
fore the shrine of the God Doubt. 

Head. That is my office in your life, master — to 
lead to doubt. There you must take command. I can 
lead no further than doubt, for there the well-worn 
paths end, and I cannot walk on unfamiliar ground. 

Arvin. It is true. Reason leads but to doubt. 

Head. And there men loiter. 

Heart. There they grope and curse God, and go 
mad in the darkness. But I have a light to shed on 
that darkness — a radiance by which all might find 
their way — yet only lovers will open their hearts to it. 

Arvin. And then you lead them often enough into 
the red thick mists of lust. 

Heart. Only when the master abdicates can the 
servant lead. 

Arvin. O ! in all the world is there nothing to 
lean upon — no certain guide? 

Heart. You are the guide, master. 

Arvin (unheeding). I thought that love was final 



30 Every Man Has His Price 

— in love I sliould find truth absolute ! One could 
rest secure in love — I thought. 

Heart. Love is but a glow, a flame. It's life and 
its color is from the wick. I am the flame that burns 
what oil is in the lamp. You, master, are the lamp 
and the wick. 

Arvin. Who pours the oil? 

Heart. Ask reason. 

Arvin (with a glance tozvard Head). He is dumb. 

Heart. My truth is hidden in symbols. 

Head. I must speak in syllogisms. 

Arvin. And syllogism and symbollism alike lead 
only to confusion. 

Heart. It is not their office to lead. They are but 
tools for the master who shall lead. 

Head. That is true — we are the followers. Only 
the master can lead. 

Arvin. Who is the master? 

Heart. Who knows himself to be. 

Arvin sits at the table and remains deep in thought. 

Heart (hovering near). He is still leaning on the 
old love. 

Arvin. Ah. yes, the old love ! O, time, what a 
snare you, too, are ! The love of yesterday — of only 
an hour ago — and yet the old love. A thousand years 
old you seem. (Goes to desk and takes dozvn the 
violets.) She sent them when the flame of love was 
pure. O, violets that "wake the memory of dead ro- 
mances," lend thy fragrance to my willing senses 
and waft me pictures of those hours when love 
beckoned from heights — when I forgot the form and 
saw but the dazzling sheen of her white soul ! 

Heart (timidly). Her soul is still white and pure. 
No harm can come to that. 

Head. He is unreasonable there. 

Heart. The form shadows the soul and blots it 
from view — that is the trouble. It is love's halo that 
makes the form transparent and reveals the soul. 
When the halo is gone — O, it's no use ! 

Arvin (puts back the violets). Only memory is 
left. (Goes tozvard door, pauses near it. his eyes 
closed). And in the darkness how vivid are its 
images ! Love peoples the invisible with her haloed 
form. Almost the garment of her spirit I touch ! 

Sara enters softly zvhilc he is thus }nusing. 

Arvin. How real the vision! Sara — (she is nozv in 
his arms). The vision fades — this is real! Sara, you 
here ? 

Sara. Something stronger than myself drew me. 
You have forgiven all? Love has conquered? 

Heart appears behind Arvin, a zvild, primitive 
gleam in his eyes. 



The Third Act 31 

Arvin (embracing her fiercely). There is nothing 
to forgive — nothing — nothing, woman ! I could not 
live without you ! 

Sara (startled, dismayed, perplexed — frees her- 
self) . Henry ! 

Heart seems to whisper to Arvin, and then slowly 
disappears. 

Arvin (impetuously embracing her again). Sara, I 
cannot live without you ! (She yields, struggling. He 
half carries her to the lounge.) 

Sara (still amazed and perplexed, but something 
of his passion imbues her, and she does not strug- 
gle). I am yours, Henry, wholly yours — and you are 
mine ! 

Arvin goes to the door and locks it as the Curtain 
falls. 

END OF ACT TWO 



THE THIRD ACT 

As the curtain rises Arvin is sitting by the table 
thoughtful, moody,, and silent, the telephone directory 
in his hand unopened. 

Sara is putting fresh water on the violets, then 
she does the same for the poppies on the table. 

Arvin catches her hand as she passes. She leans 
over and kisses his forehead. Finished zvith the flow- 
ers, she brings the stool from the fireplace and siirs 
on it beside him. Casually she notices the calendar. 

Sara. Why, this is Washington's Birthday. You 
should not have been at the office today. 

Arvin. When I came I only meant to stay a few 
minutes. 

Sara. And you have been here ever since? 

Arvin. Practically, since ten o'clock. 



32 Every Man Has His Price 

Sara (looking at his zvatcJi). It is after three — 
and you have had no luncheon? 

Arvin. I hadn't tliou<?ht of that. This has been 
the most tremendous day of my life. . . . But it's 
all settled now. I suppose. Life has cast the die for 
me. How foolish for one to struggle. (Opens tele- 
phone book) There is one thing to do yet, and then 
we will leave here. (Rings up) Main eight three four, 
please. 

Heart appears discreetly, leering, and with most 
unpleasant look, much of tvhich is reflected on Ar- 
vin's countenance, and in his manner. 

Sara (scanning his face anxiously). I see some- 
thing different in your face, Henry — something new 
to me in you. 

Arvin (evading her eyes). I am older — years older. 
(To the 'phone). This is Mr. Arvin talking. Yes — 
I recognize the voice. H you can come over at once 
I think we can arrange that matter — you understand ? 
Yes, at the figure last named. Bring it with you — 
yes. Good-by (Hangs up receiver). We will go to 
Australia in the morning. There is a steamer leav- 
ing at sunrise. 

Sara (delighted, but greatly surprised). Splendid, 
splendid! . . . But — are we leaving for good? 

Arvin. Yes. 

Sara (mystified and troubled at his evident lack 
of confidence in her). But this is all so strange. You 
never spoke of going away before. 

Arvin (bitterly). I did not know — I mean — I only 
just decided to go. Do you hesitate? 

Sara (impulsively). Hesitate to go with you, Hen- 
ry! How could you ask it? . . . . And yet — I 
do not understand. There is something strange and 
unreal about all this. (She tries to look in his eyes; 
he evades her frank and questioning look). You are 
changed, Henry — you are changed ! 

Arvin (slightly resentful). All is changed since 
yesterday. 

Sara (sinking back). Was my sin then so great? 

Arvin. It destroyed the ideal. 

Sara (deeply perplexed — appealingly). Yet you 
took — 

Arvin (despondently). But the shell of it. 

Sara (thru her silent tears). And you have not 
forgotten and forgiven ? 

Arvin (stolidly). There is nothing to forgive — or 
forget — I suppose. ... It puts a different phase 
on our lives — that's all. 

Sara (zvccping silently; then zi'ith some indigna- 
tion). How often have we said to each other that 



The Third Act 33 

ideals should rest upon realities and not upon ap- 
pearances? O, I fondly hoped that you — you, Henry 
— would be the last to judge a woman through the 
eyes of society ! 

Arvin. And I thought you — but we can't talk of 
these things now. It is both too early and too late. 

Sara. It never can be too late for us to under- 
stand each other. 

Arvin (doggedly — in his eyes she is Crane's ex- 
mistress). I suppose you are anxious about the mar- 
riage. We can — ■ 

Sara. Marriage ! what ceremony — what ring — what 
law of man or God can weld us closer than we are 
... or bridge the gulf that is yawning between us? 

Arvin {perplexed). What is it then? Why do you 
hesitate? 

Sara. What a world of despair lurks in that ques- 
tion. Henry — Henry — my God ! we are drifting apart 
already ! 

Arvin (looks at his watch — tries to pacify her for 
the present). I am sure it is not so bad as that. 
The world is a httle different than I thought — that 
is all. We shall know each other better after a while. 
. . , I am expecting a man on business in a min- 
ute. You are going with me in the morning, Sara? 

Sara (catching at a straw). To the ends of the 
world — if you really want me? 

Arvin. I can't go without you. I can't accept life 
without you. I have tried — but I can't. . . . You 
must go and pack a few things — just hand luggage 
— we will take nothing else now. (As she puts on 
her hat and he holds her wraps for her, he looks at 
her searchingly, yet covertly). There is nothing in 
your home life that attracts you — makes you hesi- 
tate to leave? 

Sara. Nothing. And everything to urge me to leave. 
I had no aim in life till you came into it — and only 
stayed on because Mrs. Grane was an invalid. I felt 
I owed her something — my mother's half sister — 

Arvin. It is better to say nothing to them at pres- 
ent. We can write later. (Kisses her) Now hurry off. 
If you are back in time we can spend the evening 
at the Cliff House. 

Sara. Our last evening in San Francisco, Henry. 

Arvin. Yes. She goes. 

Head (appearing). She seems to have no hesitancy 
in leaving her child. 

Heart. Never mind that now. It doesn't count 
with the present status of things. The money will 
be here in a moment. . . . She is a beautiful 
woman. 



34 Every Man Has His Price 

Arvin (peering into the fire). She is a mystery. 

Head. Every woman is a mystery to the man who 
loves her. 

Heart. Don't talk of love now. 

Head. O, love is anything and everything. 

Heart. Not to him. 

Head. It soon will be. The world is pulling him 
thru its knot-hole. 

Heart. That will only rub off his outside corners. 
It won't change him. 

Head. You are getting up in the sky again. I can't 
follow you. 

Heart. Don't worry. We're not going very high 
just now. 

Head. A good deal lower, I should say. 

Arvin (rousing himself, as tho shaking off his in- 
visible tormenters). I can't understand her. Only 
in my own thought has she seemed to change. The 
same delicacy — the same depth and trueness — 

Heart (leering). She was Crane's mistress. 

Head. And she deserts her child readily. 

Arvin (musing). Is she acting? .... Can 
she think that I still idealize her — or respect her — 

(The door opens and Bland enters.) 
Be seated, sir. 

Bland (looking around). We are alone, I presume? 

Arvin (turning key in door). Entirely alone. 

Bland. I should like to look over the papers. 

Arvin (brings papers from safe). There. 

Bland (turning them over on the table). There is 
the forged death certificate of Sara Relton .... 
the letter of Crane to her father just before his 
death. (Reads, zvhile Arvin stands behind him at 
fire-place, His Heart in evidence zvith a greedy, sin- 
ister look, zvhich communicates itself to Arvin's 
face). As I have often suspected, Sara Relton is 
probably alive, but I suppose only Crane knows where 
she is. Do you think he is aware of this letter? 

Arvin. I think he had an inventory of them by 
mail. He was to go over them in the morning with 
his attorneys. 

Bland. He will need his attorneys for another 
service. This letter alone proves the whole conspir- 
acy. . . . And the marriage certificate of Sara 
Relton's parents. . . . All very damning evidence 
against Crane, but I am bound to say they don't 
strengthen the case of the English claimants. We 
shall have to be looking up Sara Relton — what, ah, 
her photograph (holds it up). You never saw any- 
one resembling that young lady, did you? 

Arvin starts. 



The Third Act 35 

Head (appearing suddenly). Keep still! 

Arvin looks at photo, but remains silent. 

Bland. Let's see. Yes — there's the date and the 
name. Taken at Chicago eight years ago — she was 
about eighteen then. 

Arvin is greatly agitated, but says nothing. He is 
still behind Bland. 

Bland {nmiiing over the papers again). They are 
well worth the money — to either the heiress or the 
English claimants. She will probably never be found. 
Like Grane to have shipped her off to some unlikely 
place. The Relton estate is valued at eighteen mil- 
lion dollars, Mr. Arvin, and that is a very con- 
servative estimate. I feel that you are doing a pub- 
lic service in this matter, sir. Mr. Grane is a dan- 
gerous man. He was a sort of partner once of Her- 
bert Relton — but his claim to this estate rests upon 
a most gigantic conspiracy. And he did seem to have 
the upper hand in the matter. However, all that is 
now changed. With these proofs — we will probably 
proceed in his case at once. Now as to your hon- 
orarium, sir (hands over a long envelope bulging 
with greenbacks). It is in paper currency, sir. Un- 
usual here, but easier to handle. I think you will 
find the count correct. Twenty thousand was the fig- 
ure named — 

Arvin clutches the package and nervously puts it 
in his inside coat pocket without counting it. His 
face is bloodless. He looks the criminal that he feels 
he is — and behind him is His Heart, whose look and 
manner is even worse than Arvin's. 

Bland (patronizingly) . I see very plainly, Mr. Ar- 
vin, that you are not accustomed to these financial 
transactions — if j'ou will permit me to say so. 

Arvin (his voice thick, speaking zvith difficulty). 
Hardly. 

Bland. You must allow me to say, further, Mr. 
Arvin, that nearly all cases involving large sums — 
I may say all cases where there are millions at stake 
— are handled in this way. There is nothing unusual 
— ahem — I may say, nothing unethical, in this trans- 
action. 

Arvin silently unlocks the door. 

Bland. I bid you a very good afternoon, Mr. Ar- 
vin. Exit. 

Arvin inclines his head, tries to speak, but his 
voice fails him, and when he has closed the door 
on Bland he goes to the sink and drinks greedily. 

His Alter Egos are close to him, but their faces 
and manner are normal, all the passion, craft, and 
sensuality heretofore suggested by them are now 



36 Every Man Has His Price 

seen plai)ily in Arvin's face and manner. He Iia^ as- 
sumed the reins and is treading with firm feet again 
— albeit on unfamiliar ground. 

Arvin. So she is the Relton heir ! Eighteen mil- 
hons ! This isn't worth counting then (tapping the 
envelope bulging from Iiis pocket). I have been a 
poor blind fool all these years — searching for the 
non-existant — hoping and striving for the impossi- 
ble — chasing rainbows and dreaming of ideals as un- 
substantial as desert mirages ! But no more of that ! 
Lost and barren years ! Wealth and power are the 
world's only realities. In my heart I will build a 
shrine to them. 

Head. Well, every man has his price, I suppose. 

Arvin. And when he's bought and paid for he may 
as well own it. 

Head. I fear your worship of wealth will be in- 
constant. The past surely will rise up and clutch you. 

Arvin. I'll throttle it with lust. 

Heart. The old ideals will not desert you so 
quickly. 

Arvin. I'll blot out the images with — eighteen mil- 
lion dollars. 

Head. Too much money for one man. It will weigh 
on you. 

Arvin. Too much! Not enough. I'll double and 
treble it. I'll buy privileges from legislatures, from 
Congress — and have a steady stream of gold and 
power flowing to me. 

Heart, (to Head, aside). He thinks he will get 
these millions — they will get him. 

Head. That is always the case. Men never possess 
wealth. It possesses them. 

Heart. It seems to have him already. 

Head. Let us remonstrate with him. 

Heart. You can't reach him now. 

Head (to Arvin). You can't use all that money. 
What will you do with it? 

Arvin. I'll rule and grind and enslave men with it. 
I'll build palaces of marble. I'll travel, buy pictures, 
yachts, women ! 

Heart. Don't forget the beautiful one you have. 
It is thru her that you will get these millions. 

Arvin. O, I'll remember nothing — no one ! But she 
shall have her day. I'll build her a palace on Nob 
Hill, and London, Paris, and New York will be her 
playground. When she tires of me there will be 
princes and sovereigns at her feet. 

Head. There will be a chance for j^ou to lead the 
intellectual life you have longed for — with books and 
leisure at j-our command. 



The Third Act 37 

Arvin. Yes. I'll have a library first of all. 

Heart. And read less, I'm afraid. 

Arvin. That's true. Very little reading. I'll play 
the game of life as I find it. Men will fawn on me, 
not for what I am, hut for what I have. 

Heart. Why should you want any to fawn on 
you? 

Arvin. What else is there in life? I may tire of 
sheer lust. 

Head. Adulation will sicken you quicker. 

Arvin. Come, none of your platitudes. Wealth is 
the word — wealth and luxury ! 

Heart. You are drunk of wealth already. 

Arvin. And if I am — it is the world's drunkenness. 
Who is there to deny me the full cup? 

Head. You will find bitter dregs in it. 

Arvin. I have found those in every cup. 

Head. Because you drink too deeply. 

Heart. The dregs are in the bottom of the cup. 

Head. But it is you who tip the cup for hmi. 
Time and again you have tipped it, till he has learned 
to need the dregs. 

Heart. I but do as I am bid. 

Arvin. Well, I'll taste the dregs of this cup, too. 
Who or what on earth is there to mock me as I 
drink? 

Heart (timidly). Love — perhaps — 

Arvin (bitterly). Love, you say! O, now 1 shall 
taste of love — the only love there is in the world. 
The fairest women of every clime shall be mine. 
I'll seek them out from the fartherest corners — from 
the peasant homes and from the palaces of the rich 
— and buy their fondest smiles with the clink of gold ! 

Head. He is drunk. 

Heart. He is money mad. It is your doing. 

Head. Can't you see he is doing it himself? 

Arvin. O, wealth ! I'll probe your every power for 
happiness. I'll learn the secret of your fascination for 
men. I'll find the god in you that men so devoutly 
worship. Every human lust and joy I'll taste and test ! 

Heart is greatly pained at all this, as his face 
plainly shozvs. 

HE.A.D. You never worshipped wealth before. 

Arvin. No. This is no seeking of my own. I played 
with Life for other stakes, for delights more lasting, 
for joys keener. But Life's dice are loaded — his 
Argosies of wealth and luxury are poured into my 
lap, while with his other hand he shuts upon me the 
door of the ideal. I yield. I'll riot in the coarse sen- 
sations of the world — feed the flesh and know the 
lusts of wealth that men so hunger for ! (He is pacing 



38 Every Man Has His Price 

the -floor excitedly — stops and looks at his watch.) 
Why doesn't she come? I'm burning to tell her of 
her fortune — eighteen millions ! 

Heart. Every penny of which you would give to 
see the aureole again around her. 

Arvin. Ah. yes — and throw in all else of life and 
eternity — and even hope itself — and count it cheap — 
for an hour of the old love ! . . . But why do 
you torture me? Why are you always yearning for 
the impossible? I but brook the inevitable — embrace 
life as I find it. 

Head. Yes, it is unwise to worry about what might 
have been. We must look life in the face and accept 
the responsibilities imposed upon us. 

Arvin. Responsibilities ! — that's the word. I thank 
you for it. The responsibilities of the rich. We arc 
the guardians of the world's wealth — vice-regents of 
the Almighty. (Mockingly) Yes, yes — we must carry 
our heavy loads — our responsibilities! (Looks at his 
watch again nervously. As he replaces it Sara enters 
with cabman carrying tzvo satchels). At last! (He 
tips and dismisses cabman). 

Sara. We had to walk up all the way. 

Arvin. I forgot that confound elevator. I should 
have been downstairs waiting for you. But I haven't 
been able to think of anything except the wonder- 
ful tidings I have for you. What do you think they are? 

Sara. I haven't the slightest idea. Let us sit down 
and talk about it calmly. You are flushed and fever- 
ish. What has happened? (They sit in front of grate. 
He fetches the stool for her, which she prefers.) 

Arvin. You are the heiress of the Reltcn mil- 
lions ! 

Sara. Impossible ! 

Arvin. It is true. I saw the absolute proof of it 
only a few minutes ago. You are the daughter of 
Herbert Relton — heiress of the entire estate. Think 
of it, Sara, think of it ! Eighteen millions ! 

Sara. I can't think of it — it is hideous. 

Arvin. You can't mean that — why — 

Sara. I shall not assume it. I don't want it. 

Arvin. Don't want it? Well, I can use it. Think 
what it will do for us. (Regarding her zvith a puz- 
zled air.). What do you want, Sara? 

Sara. Something in you that I seem to have lost. 
If I cannot find it, life itself I shall refuse. 

Arvin. I can't understand how you talk this way. 

. . . We shall not go to Australia now, tho I 
have plenty of money here (displays the envelope, 
which falls, spilling its contents all around them. He 
stoops to gather up the bills.) 



The Third Act 39 

Sara (astonished) . Henry, where did all this come 
from? You do not carry such sums with you — and 
the banks are closed today — ? 

Arvin. O, never mind now. This is nothing. Think 
of eighteen millions ! (He suddenly rises and tries 
to imbue her with some of his own madness.) Sara, 
you will be a queen. You will have all the world at 
your feet. You can rule in any circle. You shall 
have palaces. Men and women will court you ! 

Sara. O, what madness has come over you, Henry? 
Is this your estimate of life — and of me? 

Arvin (stoops to gather rest of bills). I am taking 
life as I find it. 

Sara. So Pilate said when the multitude demanded 
Barabas. And Judas said it. And every man who 
sells the truer joys of life for pieces of silver says it. 

Arvin. But what if the truer joys be wrenched 
from you and the pieces of silver flung in your lap? 

Sara. I would scorn them — scorn life itself on 
those terms — and I do. I have been weak and have 
bowed to fate. I have taken life as I found it — a 
woman's duty, the world taught me. But I am tired 
of being a woman — a toy. I am going to be a human 
being. I shall look life in the face and decide for 
myself whether to take the best it offers me. I am 
going to accept life on my own terms — or reject it. 

Arvin (peevishly). Why do you talk like that? 

Sara. Because the world is slipping from me — the 
world of love and happiness in which I have lived. 
I am groping again in a darkness that is blacker 
for the light that has been. Life strips me of all 
reason for living, and — 

Arvin. Wealth will buy us everything. 

Sara. How can I hear you say that? It will buy 
nothing that one is not happier without. Not an in- 
stant of love can it buy — not all the wealth that you 
could stoop to pick up in million dollar bills would 
buy an instant of the love that we have lost so soon. 

Arvin (unheeding — replacing bills in envelope). I 
guess they are all there. Enough, anyway. 

Sara. O, I was right when I trembled to reach 
out and touch the ideal. Lo ! it has crumbled, and is 
fading away before my eyes ! 

Arvin. Let us consider this thing seriously and 
sensibly, Sara. Now in the morning we will see 
'the lawyers. 

Sara (by an effort calming herself). Yes, let us 
talk seriously. We must understand each other now 
or never. While I understood you I trusted you 
blindly. Now I must know everything. Perhaps I 
shall not accept the terms of life — I must know what 
they are. 



40 Every Man Has His Price 

Arvin. Why do you take things so tragically? 

Sara. That is how 1 find them. 

Arvin. Why, there is no tragedy in this. It is just 
wealth — money — 

Sara. There is always tragedy in money. It is the 
tragedy of life — whether tO' have it or to lack it. 

Arvin. Let us forget the tragedy. It will buy us 
many things if we use it. 

Sara. Men never use wealth — it uses them. And 
what of use can it buy for those who are losing 
life's incentive? 

Arvin. O, if you are going to look at it that way! 
Life is the way you look at it. I am not so enamored 
of things, but I can't change them. (Again he is 
wishing that he could — but he rallies and says) : Let 
us get what enjoyment we can out of life as it is. 

Sara. I don't see things clearly, Henry — but life, 
as it presents itself to me now does not interest 
me. . . . This large sum of money — you did not 
have it yesterday — an hour ago, even? 

Arvin (sullenly). No — but what does it matter? 

Sara. Perhaps very little — perhaps a great deal. 
I must know. Where, how, did j'ou get it? 

Arvin. Of what importance is that? It is the first 
of 3'our eighteen millions, let us say. 

Sara. I shall never say that. How much is it? 

Arvin. O, about twenty thousand — a mere penny. 

Sara. If it is honestly ours, then let us be con- 
tent with it and go to Australia, as you planned — or 
to India, or Japan. Let us leave in the morning. 

Arvin. And forgo the eighteen millions ! You are 
mad, Sara ! 

Sara. I cannot doubt it — quite mad. O, God! Hen- 
ry, how mad I am when I look into your eyes that 
quail before me and no longer find there the man 
I loved. The love light is all gone — the golden light 
that enshrouded the old sorrows and opened vistas 
of new heavens — all gone ! The lamp of our love is 
dark ! 

Arvin. I don't deny that things are altered, Sara. 
Perhaps I too have groped and suffered some — I 
don't know — I can't remember. I can't think of that 
now. The present and future seem so different now. 
Let us settle these immediate things first. 

Sara. And they have to do with money, it seems. 
Then tell me about this — 

Arvin. I suppose you are right. This twenty thou- 
sand is a trivial matter — but it's your money, anyway. 
And I'm not fool enough, or so afraid, that I must 
lie about it. Well, I sold some of Crane's secret pa- 
pers for it — to the attorneys of the Relton English 



The Fourth Act 41 

heirs. It was in that transaction — just before you 
came in — turning over these secret foreign papers of 
Crane's — that we found the evidence of your title. 
It is positive, Sara. The estate is yours, beyond— 

Sara {amazed at the confession). The Relton es- 
tate is of no interest to me, Henry. Let me under- 
stand this insistent matter first. You robbed your 
employer to obtain this money. That was the money 
you had planned for — and the reason why we were 
to go away? 

Arvin. O, if you put it that way — perhaps it was 
robbery — but you don't understand it — • 

S.^R.A. I am listening. 

Arvin. Well, I accidentally discovered the nature 
of these papers this morning. They show a huge con- 
spiracy of Crane's to disinherit you. He had no 
moral right to the documents. The ends of justice 
are better served by having them in the hands of dis- 
interested parties. Crane is thoroly a rascal. 

Sara. Then you think it entirely correct to steal 
secret papers from — 

Arvin From a rascal. 

Heart. Ask her about her relations with Crane. 

Arvin {his head muddled. The actual si)icerity of 
Sara confuses his guilt. He docs not hear the prompt- 
ing). It is not like taking them from an honest man, 
or from one who had a moral right to them. 

Sara. You are drawing distinctions of moral rights. 
Then is it moral to rob even a rascal, if he happen 
to be your employer and the opportunity to rob him 
is vouchsafed by his trust in you — and you rob him 
of that which you are accepting a salary for safe- 
guarding? You didn't sell them to the officers of the 
law? 

Arvin. No. But why analyze it like that? 

Head. She is accusing you when you should be 
accusing her. 

Arvin {brushing away the thought). I can't look 
at her and accuse her of anything. 

Sara. And this is the moral code of the man to 
whom I had given my life? 

Arvin. There is no morality in business — {then 
desperately) nor anywhere else in life that I can find. 

Sara {zvincing, hut gathering her forces). Perhaps 
this is my last word to you, Henry. We do not un- 
derstand each other. You look upon the misfortune 
of my life as a crime, and tho I feel that your crime 
is rather more of an impulsive misfortune, it means 
that we are far apart in our views of life. It means 
that we have lost respect for each other. We have 
lost everything — love, confidence, respect — and you 



42 Every Man Has His Price 

prate of wealth to bridge that gulf! Life is over- 
powering me ! . . . . And yet — O, hope dies 
hard ! Perhaps we can yet float on the dark wild 
ocean of life together— perhaps — if not in happiness 
in peace. Shall we try? Are you willing, Henry? 

Arvin (perplexed). I thought you would view the 
matter sensibly, Sara. 

Sara. Take back the money to the Relton law- 
yers. Then come to me with clean hands and we 
will go off somewhere and work together. I have a 
little. I am not dependent upon Grane. We will go 
to Australia — anywhere — 

Arvin. And leave the millions. But — Sara — (he 
quails before her glance). 

Sara. Yes — yes — leave the very thought of millions 
— and all mention of them forever ! Go at once, Hen- 
ry. Go out in the air and think it all over. Perhaps 
you will not return — and it may be better so. I don't 
know — I can't think — and dare not hope. 

(He stands dazed and hesitating. She gathers his 
coat, hat, and gloves and brings them to him.) 

Go now, at once, Henry. Do not return except 
with your hands clean and your heart ready to ac- 
cept me as I am — for what I am. We will share our 
poverty and our disgrace together — ;/ you return. 
There is little reason why you should. The Relton 
millions never shall be mine. I don't ask you to 
return — but — I — shall — wait — here — awhile — 

Arvin. Sara — ! 

Sara. O, no more ! no more now ! Go — please — 
go at once. 

She is on the point of collapsing, but holds herself 
until he has silently passed out, then she throws her 
arms on the table, buries her face in them, and sobs 
are heard as the curtain falls. 

END OF ACT THREE 



THE FOURTH ACT 

As the Curtain rises Mary enters; goes at once to 
Sara and tries to comfort her. 

Mary. Dear girl — I think I know — 

Sara. O, Mary, I pray you never may know. 

Mary. That is Hke you. Tho your heart is break- 
ing you can mold a prayer in it for a friend. Well, 
I think your prayer will be answered, Sara, for it 
seems that my knowledge of life is destined to be 
vicarious. And perhaps that is well. 

Sara. I am sure it is. . . . Do you know, Mary, 
I have seen the sun sink at midday! 

Mary. Which being translated into prose, means 
that you have fixed your heart on a man and found 
him— only a man. 

Sara. But why translate it? What is done is done. 

Mary. What is done in error must be done over 
again. 

Sara. Now it is you who are talking in metaphor. 

Mary. This "moving Finger having writ" never 
did please me. I like the way he said it, but the 
sense of it is trivial, gloomy without sufficient cause, 
and not true. 

Sara. Not true, Mary? 

Mary. Tears wash out almost anything, I notice. 
And what they fail to erase, the wind, rain, and 
sun wash out. 

Sara. The sun is gone from my life. 

Mary. The sun doesn't move, Sara. 

Sara is silently zveepijig. 

Mary. Come, dear girl, don't try to wash out the 
old writing with your tears. Let it stand. We have 
pen and ink — 

Sara. Ah, it is written in blood, Mary. 

Mary. Very well — blood always was cheaper than 
ink. But write it in bitter tears or heart's blood, as 
you will, if the first writing be wrong write it ovei 
again — and again. . . . Now let us leave poetr> 
and talk in plain prose. It is time we did. 

Sara. Don't you like poetry, Mary? Grief has 
no other tongue. 

Mary. That's the fault of grief — not its merit. 
Yes, I like poetry — in books — and in life when the 
current flows smoothly. But there's a time for poetry. 



44 Every Man Has His Price 

and another time for prose, and we never seem to 
know which is which. When people poetize their 
grief, I know they are revcHng in it, drawing it in 
deep, hugging it to their souls. 

Sara. You seem to think people love grief. 

Mary. Indeed they do. Some people never arc 
happy unless they are miserable. 

Sara (smiling thru her tears). O, Mary — 

Mary. But that's not you, Sara. You have the 
shadow of a cause for your grief, but I think it is 
only a shadow. 

Sara. You are driving at something, Mary? I 
have no wits. 

Mary. That's because you are living a one-act 
tragedy written by Life in poetic metre, and you 
can't read between the lines, or stop to analyze 
them, for the charm of the metre — the bitter-sweet 
charm, shall we say. 

Sara. Does reason ever help one, Mary? 

Mary. It might, if one used it in the right place. 

Sara. But in grief — ? 

Mary. That's the time to use it, Sara. In joy, in 
love, reason is a fool. In grief — it might save many 
tears. But no, we use our reason to quell our joys, 
and when the avalanche falls, or the sun darkens 
on a clear day, at once we weep the "Sorry Scheme 
of Things entire," instead of looking about us and 
turning over the matter to see if the error is not 
ours instead of God's. 

Sara. And if we find the error is ours, does that 
make it the easier to bear? 

Mary. It may make it the easier to repair. 

Sara. But suppose it is beyond repair? 

Mary^ Suppose it isn't — not so many things are 
as we suppose. 

Sara. Your theories are beautiful Mary, but when 
Life leads you up against a hard, dull fact — 

Mary. Turn it over — walk around it. You may 
find a vulnerable heel to it. 

Sara. Your spirit leads me almost to hope. 

Mary. Let it lead you all the way, Sara. . . . 
Tell me, is there nothing inexplicable in all this 
tragedy you are enjoying? 

Sara (grimly). Enjoying — yes. Why, it is all in- 
explicable, Mary. There seems to be no reason, no 
sense at all to it — only a horrible reality. 

Mary. Perhaps we can reason it out a little — I 
am not sure. One is not sure of anything sometimes. 

Sara (im(>ulsiirly. xvith a vague hope). I am sure 
you are the best friend I have in the whole world, 
Mary, the very best and dearest. 



The Fourth Act 45 

Mary. Yet I know so little about your life, Sara. 

Sara. As I do of yours. We have taken each other 
on trust. There is nothing to tell in my life. It has 
been inexpressably dreary — a woman's life. 

Mary. Do you like Mr. Grane very much? 

Sara. It would be unkind to say how much I dis- 
like him — why do you ask that? 

Mary. But you are part of his family? 

Sara. He was my guardian. His wife is my moth- 
er's sister. I have had no other home. 

Mary. Are you sure of the relationship? 

Sara. I have always understood, yes — but, O, you 
are not going to tell me that I am the Relton heiress ? 

.... Is that all? 

Mary. I know nothing about ,that. What I am 
trying to find out is Crane's motive for slandering you. 

Sara. O, he has told about that unfortunate chap- 
ter of my girlhood. Alas ! that is not a slander. 
I have no reason to hide it — it is all true enough. 

Mary. Tell me about it, Sara. 

Sara. It seems such a small thing now — and so 
remote. I was married — or thought I was. He ran 
away almost the next day. Later it was found that 
the ceremony was not legal. 

Mary. Was there a child? 

Sara. It only lived a few months. Sometimes I 
have regretted that. 

Mary. In all this there is nothing shameful — only 
a touch of chastening sorrow that the years have al- 
most washed away. 

Sara. So I felt. When love knocked again I 
opened my heart to him and let him enter. But he — 
he views it as the world would. In his eyes I am not 
the same woman. 

Mary. I cannot think it. 

Sara. But it is true. 

Mary. I am sure it isn't true, Sara. If there is 
nothing else in your life, there are years of happi- 
ness yet for you. 

Sara. Alas ! no, Mary. 

Mary. He loves you. 

Sara. I used to think so. He is changed. 

Mary. He still loves you. 

Sara. Between us love is dead. In his eyes, this 
thing in my life you think so .small, is a fatal defect. 
It killed his love — and woke a demon. And — O, how 
can I tell you ? I have seen him in a different light. 

Mary. You have seen him as one blind and de- 
luded — as one who thinks there is a great shame 
in your life — 

Sara. Yes — he sees shame in that. 



46 Every Man Has His Price 

Mary. No, Sara, he docs not find shame in that. 
O, you lovers are the stupidest people ! Couldn't 
either of you imagine that Grane had lied about you? 

Sara. Why should he? What do you mean, Mary? 
O, tell me? 

Mary. Grane did lie about you, most horribly — 
tho why I can't understand — unless you are the Rel- 
ton heiress, and he wanted to keep you unprotected ? 

Sara. Yes, that is it — I am sure that is it. I am 
the Relton heiress, it seems — tho I hate the thought. 
Tell me all ? 

Mary. He told Henry Arvin that you were his 
mistress — that he was the father of your child, which 
he led him to believe was still living. 

Sara. O ! O ! I see it now — O — 

Mary. I don't believe Henry would have accepted 
it from him. Something else happened that seemed 
to confirm it. 

Sara. I told him what Grane had said was true. 

Mary. Not asking him what that was? 

Sara. No — no ! 

Mary. And so you both walked blindly into his 
snare — readily, it seems. Love yearns for grief — and 
ever finds it. 

Sara. You are right, Mary. We were blind. Love 
blinded us — then grief. 

Mary. They are close kin. 

Sara. O, I can see it all so plainly now — all — 
all— all ! I could never tell you how much there 
is. . . . Mary, I owe you my life's happiness. 1 
owe you love itself. (Aside) Will he return? 

Mary. You owe me nothing, Sara. But I still owe 
you both a good scolding, I think. You were willing 
to think the worst of each other rather than use 
your wits and solve the problem that Life presented 
to you — the very first problem. 

Sara. You can't scold me too hard, Mary. I de- 
serve it all, and a good deal more than your tender 
heart will ever let you bestow. . . . But now I 
must think of something else. Shall I ever see him 
again? How can I find him? 

Mary. Is it so serious as that? You parted in 
anger? 

Sara. Not in anger — there was no room for that 
— but in pain — pain unutterable. He may not return. 
O, what shall I do? Dear, wise I\Iary, what shall 1 
do to find him? 

Mary. Stay right here and wait. He will return. 

Sara. O. he may not. You don't know — 

Mary. I know that you are the strongest force in 
his life, Sara, and that is enough. He has no choice 
but to return. 



The Fourth Act 47 

Sara. I almost feel that you are right. Dare I sit 
idle here and wait and trust? 

Mary. That is all you can do now. 

Sara. Alas ! I am bewildered ! If he should not 
come back — 

Mary. That is not at all possible. I know. 

Sara (her arm about Mary). How do you know 
so much, Mary? 

Mary. Ah, your wits are awake at last. You should 
have asked me that before. Indeed, how do I know? 
Well, I wormed it out of him. You are not going 
to be jealous? 

Sara. Never, never — (looks at her very kindly, 
hut eloscly; Mary reddens a trifle). You too love 
him, Mary. Don't deny it. And I love you more be- 
cause you do. 

Mary (half bitterly, but lightly). Because he 
doesn't, you mean, Sara — 

Sara (protesting earnestly). Mary — 

Mary. No, you don't mean it — you're a true and 
real kind of girl — but it's true, none the less. . . . 
I will tell you — . We have been good friends in the 
office here. We have bantered each other a good 
deal, but there was a vein of sincerity beneath it, 
because — well, because he is that kind of a man. 
He has talked to me as he would to a sister — head 
and heart full of you all the time. We have talked 
just as two men, or two women, would — just as we 
are talking now. 

Sara. Just as you and he often in the future shall 
talk. 

Mary. No — that can't be. I know you mean it, 
Sara, but — but tell me about the Relton millions. 
Are they really yours? 

Sara. If I want them, it seems — which I don't. 
I shall not touch them. 

Mary (admiringly). Have you really the courage 
to do that? 

Sara. Do you think it takes courage just to forego 
wealth? If you knew how little I cared for it — how 
I dread its narrowing ways. I have seen it, hved in 
it, and learned to fear it. 

Mary. Ah, you have not had to work for bread — 
your own and an invalid mother's. 

Sara (feelingly) . Mary! But I know of that strug- 
gle. How could I not know of it? It is all around 
us. It is a harder struggle — 

Bland (enters, accompanied by a stranger). Ah. 
Miss Lambson, if you will pardon the intrusion. I 
hoped to find Mr. Grane here — or possibly Mr. Arvin. 

Sara (quickly, going to him). Mr. Arvin went to 



48 Every Man Has His Price 

your office, I believe. Have you l^een there recently? 

Mary (introducing). This is Mr. Bland — Miss 
Manning. 

Bland (stares). Miss Manning! (Aside) The 
photograph — the same, I am sure. I must compare 
them. (To Sara) Pardon me, did you say Mr. Arvin 
went to my office? 

Sara. Yes. Quite recently. 

Bland. Then if you will excuse me, ladies, and 
permit Mr. Johnson — this is Mr. Johnson, ladies 
(Johnson boivs aivkzvardly) — to remain here till I 
return, I will step over to the office and leave word 
for Mr. Arvin. 

Mary. Certainly. Be seated, Mr. Johnson. 

Bland. I will return promptly. Exit. 

Mary (to Johnson, u'lio is seated). It seems quite 
unusual for so many people to be on duty on a 
holiday. 

Johnson. We don't have no holidays at the Cen- 
tral Station, Miss. 

Mary. O, you are from the Central Station? 

Johnson. Yes, IVIiss. 

Mary. On any particular business, might I inquire? 

Johnson. I've come to call on Mr. Grane, Miss. 

Mary. I'm his stenographer — if I could — ? 

Johnson. It's a personal matter between him and 
me, Miss. 

Mary. O, personal, did you say? 

Johnson (ominously but guardedly). Yes, strictly 
personal. Miss. 

Arvin enters. 

Sara (rushes to him). Henry! 

Arvin (rather coldly). Word was left that I should 
find Mr. Bland here. My hands are still unclean. 

Sara (drawing him aside). They never have been 
soiled, Henry. (She takes both his hands.) It has 
been a dreadful mistake. 

Arvin. What has? 

Sara. Everything in the last few hours. We have 
lived thru a nightmare — but now we awake — love 
dawns on our lives again. Mary has unravelled it all. 
She has told me — 

Arvin (perplexed). What could she tell you that 
alters things? 

Sara. What Mr. Grane said — 

Arvin. Why need she? 

Sara. But it was all untrue, Henry — every word 
of it. The world has been tottering around us ! 

Arvin. Untrue ! I don't understand ! I begged you 
to say it was a lie — I thought, I hoped, I prayed it 
was. But when I asked you — you said it was true. 



The Fourth Act 49 

Then the world did totter. I saw you in a diflferent 
light — the halo was gone — I loathed you and yet 
loved 3^ou. O, I can't tell you! But it was all false — 
all false as hell? 

Sara. Not a word of it was true. I thought he 
spoke of an old sorrow in my life — that was his 
threat. I saw him when he left you and he said he 
had told you all. I thought he could tell but the truth. 

Arrin. And the truth was? But I care not for that 
now. We have years of confidence before us. So that 
you were nothing to Grane — nothing to him ! 

Sara. Nothing ! Nothing, Henry. I would have 
killed myself almost at the thought. I have loathed 
him. I can understand you now. You should have 
cursed me and driven me away as an unclean thing. 

Arvin. No more — not another word or thought of 
that, loved woman ! How the world brightens again ! 
We will quickly forget it all. Nothing now could hap- 
pen to darken our lives. {They are to left front near 
his desk.) 

Head {appearing behind Arvin and trying to whis- 
per in his ear). Don't be too sure. Everything can 
happen to you unless you know each other's lives. 

Heart {to Head). He will not heed you now. 
{To Arvin he is about to speak, when the latter, tho 
oblivious of their actual presence, waves them aside. 
They disappear hurriedly.) 

Arvin {sees Johnson and recognizes him as a 
plain clothes policeman). This stranger. I must speak 
to him at once. I must act quickly {leaving Sara — 
to Johnson). I am Mr. Crane's secretary. You are 
waiting for him, I believe? (Arvin has recovered 
himself entirely now. He shozus decisiveness and 
alertness. Henceforth he commands the situations 
and dominates the scene.) 

Johnson. Yes, sir. 

Arvin {zvhispering). He will not be back. He has 
taken passage on the Alameda for Australia. He 
will go aboard early this evening. Wait for him at 
Spreckels' dock. 

Johnson {looking at Arvin searchingly) . You are 
giving me the straight tip, sir? 

Arvin {has gone to telephone). Yes — he will sail 
in the morning. 

Johnson {zvinking to Arvin). I think not, sir. 
I'll be going right away. Exit. 

Bland enters, stops and exchanges a few words 
with Johnson in doorway. 

Arvin {at telephone — he has already secured his 
number). Mr. Grane — yes — this is Arvin — I must 
see you at once at the office. It is vital — to you. At 
once — yes. Good-bye. 



50 Every Man Has His Price 

Bland (sJiuts door after Johnson^ tunts and hows 
to ladies). You see, ladies, I am promptitude itself. 
Ah, Mr. Arvin — you wished to see me, I believe. 

Arvin {leaving telephone). I did. Some other time 
will be better. 

Bland I am glad to hear you say that, sir, for 1 
have a most important matter to take up with Miss 
Manning. {Produces the photograph. They all ex- 
amine it). That is the photograph of Sara Relton, 
to whom belongs, beyond all peradventure of doubt, 
the entire Relton estate of something over eighteen 
million dollars according to the last appraisement. 
Miss Relton, I desire to be the first to offer you my 
sincere congratulations. 

Sara {shrinking). Thank you — ^but I shall not — 
{to Arvin). Do you wish it? 

Arvin. Not a penny of it. I am rich now beyond 
all my dreams of avarice. 

Sara {quietly). I shall not claim the estate. 

Bland {gasping). Why — er — pardon me! You can- 
not mean? 

Arvin Yes. Exactly what she says. 

Bland. My dear sir — you don't mean — ? 

Arvin {directly to Bland). The situation is 
changed. I went to your office to return that money. 
But now it occurs to me to put it ,to another use. 
You will not mind? 

Bland. That sum is a mere bagatelle, Mr. Arvin. 
We will waste no time considering it — if you will 
pardon me. The young lady — your fiance — if I may 
presume ? 

Arvin. Yes. 

Bland. We can establish her claim within thirty 
days. The English heirs will not care to contest 
further, I am sure. Our firm will handle the matter 
very expeditiously, I assure you — and at the usual 
five per cent, sir. 

Sara {appealingly) . There must be some way to 
escape this burden without publicity? 

Bland {gasping). Well — well — er — my dear young 
lady — of course the English heirs that our firm did 
represent — they will naturally inherit if you make no 
appearance in the case. But such a course — 

Arvin. That is probably the solution of the mat- 
ter. You may consider that we have settled the 
point, Mr. Bland. {Turns to Sara.) 

Bland {to Mary). I beg pardon, Miss Lambson, 
but may I suggest that your friend is acting most 
extraordinarily. I should say now — ah — that she were 
not mentally sound in her views — that she were 
non compos mentis, as we sometimes say. 



The Fourth Act 51 

Mary. I suppose she isn't quite sane. She's in love, 
you know — that makes a difference. 

Bland. Decidedly, I should say — and yet — if I 
may — 

Mary. But she is very determined. I have talked 
to her about it, and there is no use trying to move 
her. She will not inherit the estate. 

Bland. How extraordinary ! most extraordinary 
thing I ever heard of! Can it really be true, Miss 
Lambson ? 

Mary. Absolutely true. You are coming in con- 
tact with extraordinary persons today, Mr. Bland. 

Bland. And do you — might I be so bold — do you 
share — ah — the j^oung lady's strange — er — hallucina- 
tion? That is, I mean, do you sympathize with her 
remarkable views? 

Mary. I think she is right — for her — and very 
wise. 

Bland (shrinking back). Mad as a March hare! 
All mad here! (Then a bright idea suggests itself.) 
But think, how the possession of such wealth would 
rehabilitate the lady's social standing. That — er — 
old mistake in her life — 

Mary. Quite true. The presence of eighteen mil- 
lions would obliterate the absence of a ring on her 
third finger — is it the third finger, Mr. Bland? 

Bland. Assuredly, Miss Lambson. 

Mary. The usages of society are not entirely un- 
forgiving — I gather? 

Bland. There always may be exceptions. We must 
not underestimate the advantages of wealth in the 
social scale. 

Mary. I presume not. But you may accept her 
word as final. She cares as little for the social scale 
as she does for the Relton millions. 

Bland. Most extraordinary ! 

Arvin (leaving Sara). I am sure it can be ar- 
ranged. (To Bland, drazving him aside, while Sara 
purposely engages Mary) It is Miss Manning's wish 
to settle a yearly sum on Miss Lambson. But the 
source of the income must remain unknown. Couldn't 
it be arranged as an unexpected balance from her 
father's old estate — say a newly discovered stock 
certificate, or enhanced mining shares? Any way, so 
that it appears to be her own — just enough to place 
her beyond the need of the daily grind? 

Bland (rcAectively). Why — yes — it can be done. 
It will be an interesting conspiracy, I am sure. 

Arvin. The ends of which will be entirely defeated 
should it become known to her, or her mother. 

Bland. You can rely on my discretion, Mr. Arvin. 



52 Every Man Has His Price 

Now, as to any wish of Miss Manning — remember 
the entire fortune is at her disposal. 

Arvin. But she doesn't want the entire estate and 
will not have it — 

Grane enters suddenly and noisily; goes to Arvin. 

Arvin (hurries to Grane and whispers — while 
Bland stares in surprise). This is too bad — a mo- 
ment too soon. The police. They have the foreign 
papers. 

Johnson enters ponderously but hurriedly; looks 
to Blanu and in response to his affirmative look 
moves to Grane, zvho is mute and stolid. 

Arvin (interposing quickly). Mr. Bland, you are 
evidently mistaken. This is not Mr. Grane ! 

Bland. Why! — Why! — What can you mean? 

Arvin (looking very fixedly at Bland). I repeat, 
sir, that you are entirely mistaken in this gentleman. 
(Bland and Arvin stare at each other, the one ques- 
tioningly and half in anger, the other trying to con- 
vey zmthout words the fact that he is going to shelter 
Grane from arrest. For a moment it is a duel. Bland 
zvavers, and the he doesn't understand, he assents.) 

Bland (to Johnson, reluctajitly hut authoritative- 
ly). Y-e-s — ]\Ir. Arvin is right. This is not your 
man, sir. 

Arvin. Mr. Lawson, a patron of our firm. 

Johnson is at the door, doubtful. At a sign from 
Bland he goes out. 

Arvin. Mr. Lawson, I must speak with you at 
once. Mr. Bland, I will call at your office in the 
morning. 

Bland, (aside). Mad — all mad here. I will say 
good-afternoon, ladies (bozvs — muttering as he goes 
to door) Most extraordinary! 

Mary (opens door for him). Extraordinarj' per- 
sons — as I told you. 

Arvin (stops Bland at door, looks at him mean- 
ingly). There must be no reprisal in this. I speak in 
Miss Manning's name. It will be safe for Mr. — 
Lawson — to leave here in a few minutes? I must 
have your word — 

Bland (looks at Sara, zi'ho has come partly tozmrd 
the door — she returns a glance of entire sympathy 
with Arvin'.? attitude). It will be safe if he leaves 
the city at once. 

Arvin. I will answer for that. (Bland goes. Turns 
to Grane). Now we part with you, Mr. Grane. 

Grane (perplexed, half cowed, but preparing to 
assert himself). Look-a-here — what does all this 
mean? 

Arvin (shortly). The law is after j^ou. I sold those 



The Fourth Act 53 

foreign papers to Holdt & Reech — 

Grane. You sneak ! 

Arvin. Yes — it was a mean thing to do, but the 
slander you uttered brought to the surface in me the 
same kind of demon that is always uppermost in you. 

Grane. Hell, if they have the papers — 

Arvin. Now to business. I received twenty thou- 
sand dollars for my villainy (takes envelope from 
his pocket) — and am going to turn it over to you 
(Grane reaches for it) — if you answer a few ques- 
tions straight and square. 

Grane. What's your questions? 

Arvin. Is Miss Manning the daughter of Herbert 
Relton ? 

Grane. Yes. 

Arvin. She relinquishes her claim — will not touch 
the estate. Do j'ou gather that? 

Grane. Yes — she's queer. 

Arvin. That leaves her with nothing — does it? 

Grane. She has some S. P. stock in her own name. 
Her father left it when he went back to England. 

Arvin. In the safe? 

Grane. Yes. 

Arvin. Let me have it. 

Grane goes to safe, opens it by combination, takes 
out several papers and puts them in his pocket. 

Arvin (to Sara, zvho shows the fatigue of the day 
and is about exhausted, leaning upon Mary). The 
day's work is nearly over, Sara. 

Grane (returns with the papers. Arvin turns to 
him). Here they are. 

Arvin (looking them over). What do they net? 

Grane. Twelve hundred, and four thousand. 

Arvin. Does she know of these? 

Grane. The twelve hundred — she uses that. 

Arvin. And you have lived on the other? 

Grane. I used it — but you don't think I lived on 
four thousand? 

Arvin. Probably not. You lived on graft. 

Grane. Who don't? 

Arvin (looks pointedly at Grane). I can't answer 
you. 

Grane (sullenly). It's all graft. 

Arvin. Every man doesn't steal. 

Grane. Everyone that don't go down walks on 
the backs of them that does. 

Arvin. I can't deny it. (Handing him the money) 
Here's the price of my manhood and decency. I 
have promised that you would leave the city at once 
and not return. Go now, and quickly. 

Grane (zvalks to door slotvly, hesitating, his hand 



W'Vk »A, i^i^t 



54 Every Man Has His Price 

i)i his coat pocket; at door he stops and turns to 
Arvin, giving him a certificate). Give this to my 
wife. It's S. P. stock — she'll need it. 

Arvin. You're not all bad (Goes to door with him 
and shakes hands in parting, then comes dozvn to 
his desk, zvhere his Alter Egos appear). 

Heart. Nor is any man all good. 

Head. Some are worse than others — that's all. 

Heart. Some are better than others, you mean. 

Arvin unhccdingly at his desk — locks it, and then 
turns to the zvomen, zvho have been putting on their 
zvraps. 

Head The day's work is over. 

Heart. The master has found himself. 

Both disappear. 

Arvin. Sara, my hands are clean. 

Sara. My heart is whole. 

Mary. Love's miracle. 



end of the play 



